


Waiting in the Rain

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-07-31
Updated: 1998-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 14:27:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11337372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Krycek's 2 a.m. ponderances lead to...





	Waiting in the Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Waiting in the Rain by Shannon M.

04 Dec 97

Waiting in the rain  
by Shannon M.

Inspired by the video for Billie Meyere's Kiss The Rain, which features a good-looking guy in a leather jacket (not Nick, sadly enough), a bunch of water, and a freestanding pay phone.  
Krycek's 2 A.M. ponderances lead to...   
Krycek belongs to Chris Carter and 1013, and I'm not making a red cent off this.  
Feedback appreciated, please send it to   
Archive to MKRA, please, keeping the above info intact.

* * *

Waiting in the rain  
by Shannon M.

So.

So, here I am, two A.M., drunk, sorta, staring at a payphone while standing in the pouring rain.

It's standing there, awash in the wan light from a streetlight, dripping.

I'm dripping, too. I could be warm and dry, but that'd mean back to the rat's nest of a motel I'm holed up in, and I don't want that. Not right now.

I've got a quarter, I remember when that would've meant I'd be losing ten cents if I dropped it in. Hell, I remember when -stamps- were a quarter.

It's raining, on me, on the cars parked shiny wet just down the way, on the bar I wandered out of with this liquid courage in my blood.

Blood. I remember that, too... The flash of muzzlefire, her determined little face screwed up in a mixture of disgust and horror. She'd had to do it, I knew. He knew, but not until later.

We all knew that she'd had to do it. In a way, I was glad she did, in a way, I wasn't.

I knew something neither of them knew, something that had only reared its head and dazzled me, as suddenly as that flicker of fire and the report.

In fact, I think it _was_ the flash that had made me realize it, that and seeing him sprawled on the wet pavement.

So. I am here, in the rain. A new song had been played in that bar-Someone I'd never ever heard of, a Billie-somebody. Her voice wasn't that special, but her words- Kiss the rain, wait for morning -they stuck with me.

That's why this quarter weighs me down, holds me fast to these few inches of sidewalk, staring at the phone.

"Here's a quarter, call someone who cares..." Country music is often story music, the telling of tales, of the truth. Told you I was drunk, this sort of thinking only comes to the surface if I'm wasted.

The truth is, he wouldn't care, if I called him. He'd rant and rave and ask me questions I can't answer.

Maybe I will.

Maybe I'll stand here in the rain, trying to kiss it because I can't wait to kiss him, waiting for the dawn, like she asked.

Maybe I'll call him, tell him... What? Hello. Yeah, that's it. "I just called to say hello." That'll go over really well.

Maybe I'll go back to the motel and dry off, dry out, and go about my unsavory business.

Fifteen minutes have gone by. My toes and fingers hurt with the cold of the rain, and I'm feeling a little unsteady. I should get in out of the rain, like a bright boy.

"If mama didn't raise no fools, who raised you?" A nervous sort of laugh scares me, I hadn't realized I said that out loud... "Not you... I was talkin' to myself." As much of an apology as they're going to get. Feet scrape over the concrete behind me, a loose, rattly cough and the person is gone, moving on down the block.

So.

So and So again, I'm actually standing next to the phone, one stiff hand resting on the slick receiver, the other closing around a coin that seems to burn with the heat of my body.

I lift my hands, hearing the flatline tone that means the line is clear, but I can't do it.

No, I'm too afraid, even with the liquor in me... Afraid of what I might let slip, afraid that slipping will mean I'm out of the game.

If I'm out, then I won't see him. Ever. Because when they take you out, they do a number on you.

My hand is rising again, the hard, cold earpiece pressing against my not-so-warm ear, quarter balancing in the coin slot.

If I let it go, I could die.

If I let it go, I could live.

If I let it go, I could speak the truth...

 At least one truth.

I think it's a truth.

If I let it go....

So.

So, here I am, two A.M., drunk, sorta, staring at a payphone while standing in the pouring rain. 

Waiting for him. 

  
**End**


End file.
